The Sign Before
by CRedford
Summary: My interpretation of a classic Sherlock episode. Enjoy! Comments are welcome! *COMPLETED 6-24-12
1. Chapter 1

_221B Baker Street_

"Sherlock, luqueteretission isn't a word."

"Says who?"

"Says the English language! You can't just make up a word."

"Why not? If it has letters, it's a word."

"Okay, then what does it mean?"

"The state of being in which one feels superior in intelligence to the rest of the general population..."

"Shut up. Here, look. Not in the dictionary."

"Screw the dictionary."

"Fine. If you're not going to follow the rules, then we won't play." John slid the tiles off the Scrabble board, putting them back into the box.

"You can't do that! We haven't finished!" Sherlock protested, as John placed the box back on the shelf.

"Well then, you'll just have to play fair next time."

"Fair is boring," Sherlock sighed, stretching his legs out on the couch. "Obviously, I would have won."

"Well, now we'll never know," John said, seating himself in the chair across from him, opening his laptop.

"I would have won," Sherlock insisted.

"Can you prove it?" John smiled.

"Quiet, I'm thinking," Sherlock said, examining the ceiling,

"You just can't face the fact that you'll never know..."

"Checking your email, I see."

"What?" John said, looking up from the computer screen.

"Checking your email. Obviously expecting a message. Not business."

"I'm just..."

"Ah, so it's personal. Defending yourself, very personal."

"I thought you were thinking."

"I am." Sherlock said, turning to John. "The way you're sitting. You're acquainted with the person, but don't know them well." He paused, watching him. "Read the message before, still trying to think of an appropriate reply."

"That's not..."

"Self-conscious about how you sound through your words, left leg crossed over right...are you seeing someone, John?"

"What? No, of course not," John sputtered, shutting his laptop.

"Come on, John. Even someone with you're I.Q could tell you were lying."

"That's not funny. And no, I am not seeing someone." He said, placing the laptop on the coffee table.

"You're wasting your breath. In a few seconds, I'll have her first name and hair color."

"Fine. What's her name?"

"Ellen. Blond hair, brown eyes. A centimeter taller than you."

"She is not taller than me. We're the same height."

"That's what you like to think," Sherlock said with a smirk. "Which proves my theory correct."

"What?"

"That you were lying." Sherlock said, sitting up. He reached for his phone as it vibrated on the coffee table. "See, I won."

"We're not seeing each other. We just met yesterday, at the…"

"Coffee shop, I know," he said, typing something onto his phone.

"How did you…"

"You wrote her number on one of their napkins," he said, pocketing the phone.

"I see." John paused, examining an imaginary hangnail. "Who was it?"

"No one important. You're going out to dinner tonight?"

"Well, Ellen and I...

"That's alright," Sherlock interrupted, standing up. "Was planning on going to Beeton's later on. Grab a bite to eat, maybe some tea..."

"That's where Ellen and I were going to go."

"What a coincidence! Had no idea," Sherlock said, a hint of mischief in his voice. "Almost as if I read your mind." He grabbed his coat and scarf off the rack. "Looks like I'll be seeing you two there."

_Beeton's Pub, 12 Northumberland Street_

"Sorry I'm late! Lots of traffic this hour," Ellen Roeder said, smoothing he navy blue pencil skirt as she seated herself across from John.

"No no, don't worry! Traffic's always terrible around here," John assured her. "Nice to see you again."

"You too. Glad we could meet tonight." She smiled. "I thought I'd be nice to get to know each other a little better."

"Definitely," he said, as they reached for the menus.

"So, do you live nearby?"

"Yeah, I live up on Baker Street," he said, glancing through the menu. "221B."

"I grew up on that side of town. Funny, the address sounds familiar."

"Really? Wonder why," he said quickly, glancing over his shoulder. "Must be a…common address." The man seated behind him shifted in his seat, flipping over his newspaper.

"I suppose so," she laughed, setting down her menu. "By the way, thanks for helping me find my keys yesterday."

"Oh, uh…you're welcome."

"No, really. I don't know how you managed to find them. They could have been anywhere."

"It was nothing. Someone once told me that, if you eliminate all other factors, the one that remains must be…"

"Oh for Pete's sake," Sherlock said, throwing down the newspaper. He turned around in his seat to face John. "You're quoting me, yet you refuse to acknowledge my presence?"

"I wasn't refusing to acknowledge your presence," John said, turning to Ellen. "Sherlock, this is Ellen…"

"Roeder," Sherlock interrupted. "I'm aware."

"Ellen, this is Sherlock." John said, glaring at Sherlock. "Sherlock Holmes."

"_The_ Sherlock Holmes? The detective?" Ellen said, with a look of disbelief.

"Consulting detective, Miss Roeder." Sherlock said, pulling up a chair to their table.

"He's a friend of mine," John said, still glaring at Sherlock.

"You don't say," Ellen said, smiling. She reached out her hand to Sherlock. "I'm Ellen Roeder. Columnist for the…"

"Metro," Sherlock finished, shaking her hand.

"My, Mr. Holmes. I must say, your skills are impressive," she said, looking at John. "Does he always finish your sentences for you?"

"Pretty much. You get used to it after awhile," John said, glancing at Sherlock.

"Well, I know it's spur of the moment…" Ellen said, pulling a small notepad out of her purse. "…but how about a quick interview?"

"An…an interview? With me?" Sherlock said suddenly, pointing to himself with a surprised smile.

"No, with John. Of _course_with you! I could get you on the front page, easy. Do you have any idea how many of my colleagues would kill for this oppritunity?"

"Sherlock isn't a fan of…" John interrupted.

"Quiet, James," she said, glancing at John. "I mean John. Sorry." She turned back to face Sherlock. "Image the publicity you'll get!"

"You hate reporters!" John sputtered at Sherlock.

"On the front page? Really?" Sherlock said shyly, ignoring John.

"Sherlock, _you_ are a public sensation!" Ellen said, eyes twinkling. "You're what the people want! You're…"

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said, standing up and pushing his chair in. "And I don't do interviews with five-figure liars who couldn't write their way out of an elementary school." With that, he adjusted his scarf and walked out of the pub.


	2. Chapter 2

_221B Baker Street_

The door to the flat slammed, followed by heavy footsteps up the stair.

"What was that?" John said angrily, standing in the doorway.

"She was wearing wedding ring, John," Sherlock said, not looking up from his computer.

"No, she wasn't!" John shouted. "She wasn't even wearing a…"

"I said she _was_," Sherlock interrupted, setting down the laptop.

"What do you…"

"Imprint on her finger. You were going to be her fourth affair this year," Sherlock said, looking at John.

"So you…"

"Made a scene to prevent you from suffering future heartbreak? No," Sherlock said smugly. "To prove a point? Yes."

"May I ask what point you were trying to prove?" John said, crossing his arms.

"Never trust the media. And I think I _did_ prove it, wouldn't you agree?" Sherlock said with a half-smile. John looked down, biting his lip.

"You should've seen her face."

"What?"

"When you said she couldn't write her way out of an elementary school." John said, glancing at Sherlock. They both chuckled.

"It's the truth. I was reading one of her columns while you were busy flirting with her at the table," he said, shaking his head. "Worse than Mycroft's college essays."

"Should I tell him you said that?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I would thoroughly enjoy it," Sherlock said, shutting his computer.

"Well, then I'd better not," John said, seating himself in a chair opposite the couch. The remained silent for a while, listening to the sound of cars passing on the street below.

"Any new cases?" John asked, glancing at Sherlock.

"None that interest me, as usual," he said, sighing. "People need to find more creative ways of killing one another."

"Don't say such things, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson said, entering the room with two cups of tea.

"Why on earth not?" Sherlock said, almost innocently, taking the cup of tea Mrs. Hudson offered him.

"Because it's wrong to wish harm upon others! Even you should know that," she sighed, handing the other to John. "I come down here with hot tea, just trying to be polite is all, and I end up listening to some morbid conversation about murderers and…oh, well, I suppose I should have known better…" she trailed off.

"I'm not wishing harm upon others. I'm simply wishing that the inevitable harm that comes be done in a more interesting fashion," Sherlock reasoned, sipping his tea. "If it isn't too much to ask." He paused, picking up his phone as it vibrated. His eyes lit up as he read the text.

"What?" John asked, curious.

"I had better leave." Mrs. Hudson said, turning towards the door. "It's another murder. I can see it on his face."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, you are absolutely right," he said, standing up quickly and pocketing the phone. He grabbed his coat and scarf once again, kissing Mrs. Hudson on the cheek and hurrying down the stairs. John followed, passing the flustered Mrs. Hudson and running to catch up with Sherlock.

"Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouted, before slamming the door behind him.

_145 Roxler Alley_

"Oh my God," John said, staring at the body before him.

"We can't even identify the body," Lestrade said, watching as Sherlock felt her wrist for a pulse. "Sherlock, she's dead, I promise."

"I'm aware, Inspector," he said, examining the palm of her hand.

"Then may I ask what you're doing?" He said, folding his arms across his chest.

"You wouldn't be capable of understanding," Sherlock said bluntly, putting his ear to what remained of her chest. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"It looks like she was attacked by some animal!" John sputtered, still staring at the body.

"Figuratively, yes," Sherlock said. He muttered numbers to himself, feeling behind her ears. He stood up, wiping a smudge of blood off his cheek with a cloth Lestrade handed him. "In reality, this was the job of a near criminal mastermind."

"Sherlock, we have several witnesses who testify that there was a violent struggle before the victim was killed."

"What, you think the victim's going to sit on her hands and wait to be hacked to death?"

"I mean, it wasn't pre-meditated. There was a fight, and things went too far."

"That's what she wants you to think. This body was dead long before she ever laid a hand on her."

"Who's 'she'?" Donovan said, standing next to Lestrade with her arms crossed.

"The murderer, of course," Sherlock smiled. He turned to Lestrade. "Who are the witnesses?"

"Well, there's a middle-aged fellow who passed on the way back from the pub. Then there was…"

"Excuse me!" A desperate voice behind them shouted. They all turned, watching as the police held a blonde woman back behind the tape. "I need in there! I need to be with her!" She struggled with the men, fighting their grasp.

"Who are you, Miss?" Lestrade asked, walking up to the yellow tape surrounding the crime scene.

"Ellen Roeder," she said weakly, tears rolling down her cheek. "And that's my sister."


	3. Chapter 3

_221B Baker Street_

"I was coming home from work yesterday, driving my car down Mosley," she said, face in hands. "She called around eleven…"

"That's an awfully long time at work, Miss Roeder," Lestrade interrupted, seated on the couch in the flat's living room.

"Ignore him. Continue," Sherlock said, pacing the far side of the room.

"It's a legitimate question, Sherlock!" Lestrade argued.

"Yes, but one that you should be able to deduce yourself," he said, glancing at Lestrade. Sherlock sighed disappointedly. "She was late talking business with her manager."

"Yes," Ellen said, looking up at Sherlock. "That's exactly…"

"I'll leave it to your imaginations to interpret the meaning of 'talking business'…"

"That's not…" Ellen sputtered angrily.

"I said nothing, Mrs. Roeder. I merely implied. Anyways…" he said, continuing to walk up and down the room. "You were driving home, she called…"

"Olivia called at eleven. She said that she needed me to pick her up from her house…"

"Why?" Sherlock said, turning to face her.

"Well, she said it was because she needed to get away from George for a while…"

"George? Her boyfriend?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. She does that sometimes; comes and stays in my apartment when he's drunk." She paused, looking at Sherlock. "She tried so hard to patient with him. She _was_ patient with him." She wiped a tear from her cheek. "He didn't come close to deserving her."

"Was he abusive?" Lestrade asked, leaning forward.

"Yes. For a while, she denied it. She told me after I noticed bruises on her arms and back. I could've killed him."

"Alright," Sherlock said, facing the window. "Keep going."

"I turned around and picked her up at her house, brought her back to my flat, and she spent the night. Next morning, she…she was gone."

"Did she take her things with her?" Lestrade asked.

"She didn't any to take. I have clothes and things for her at my place," She said, her voice faltering. "She just left. No money, no food. Nothing."

"But you knew where she was going?" Sherlock said, stopping in front of her.

"I figured that she went home. I should've known…" she said, starting to cry. John sat next to her, comforting her as she began to sob.

"One last question, Miss Roeder." Sherlock said, ignoring Ellen's wails. "Was your husband home when all this occurred?"

"No. He's away on business until Thursday…" she stopped, looking at John. "Sorry."

"Thank you Miss Roeder," Lestrade said. "I think you've been questioned enough for one day."

"I knew he would snap. I couldn't…I couldn't convince her to leave him. He was a terrible man…I should have known…" Ellen started to sob again. John sat next to her awkwardly, offering her a tissue.

"So George is now our main suspect, I suppose," Lestrade said, standing up and putting on his jacket.

"Wrong. I said earlier that the murderer was female, and George was nowhere near Roxler Alley at the time of the murder."

"How do you know that?" Lestrade asked, catching up to Sherlock as he hurried down the stairs.

"I won't waste my time explaining; you'll come to the same conclusion after consulting your witnesses," Sherlock said, opening the front door. "In the meantime, I need another look at that body."

_St. Bartholomew's Hospital_

"I about lost my stomach when they brought her in," Molly said, shuddering as she pulled back the thin sheet to reveal the mangled head. "Whoever did this…"

"Was clever, but not clever enough," Sherlock said, running his fingers through the body's hair. They stopped at the lower back part of the skull, feeling around a large open wound.

"That was the fatal blow," Molly said, setting the file down. "All of her injuries were from the same weapon. Some sort of axe or hatchet."

"Do you have a razor?" Sherlock asked suddenly, turning to Molly.

"Um…no, but…"

"Knife? Scissors? Anything?"

"I have a scalpel…" she said, picking one up from the table behind her.

"Thank you," he said, taking it from her hand. He carefully sawed away at the locks of hair surrounding the wound. Molly watched intently, taking the hair as he handed it to her.

"So, um…how's the job been?"

"At the moment, somewhat interesting."

"We could maybe, um, meet up for…"

"See that bruising right above the wound," he said, pointing to the spot with his finger. Molly sighed, looking down at where his finger rested.

"Yes. That's from the…"

"No, not from the same injury," he paused. "She was hit there with something."

"And that's what killed her?" Molly asked, examining the bruise.

"Exactly."

"Well then why on earth would someone hack someone to death after they're dead?"

"To hide the evidence," he said with a half-smile. "Clever, but not quite clever enough." He replace the sheet over the body's head.

"Do you..I mean, do they have any ideas on who did it?"

"Yes, they have their suspects," he smiled, turning to Molly. "But I have the murderer."

"Really?" Molly said, sounding surprised. "Well, who did it then?"

"Her sister, Ellen Roeder," he said. "Olivia was sleeping with her husband. Her husband was away, Olivia was staying at her flat, so she had the perfect oppritunity to get rid of her." He said, nodding towards the body. "To make it look like a bloody fight with her husband, she took an axe to her dead body and disposed of it in an alley near her and husband's house. Simple."

"You ought to tell Lestrade, then," she said quickly, glancing at Sherlock. "I mean, if she killed someone."

"Sent him a text before I came here," Sherlock said, adjusting his coat.

"But how did you…"

"The nail on her right forefinger had a chip in it. An identical chip with the same blue nail polish was in the alley, near the body," Sherlock said, heading towards the door. "Oh, and make sure to mention the bruise on her file."

"I will," Molly said, watching as Sherlock left, letting the door swing shut behind him. She sighed, reaching for her pen. Quickly, she jotted down a few notes in the margins, crossing out the cause of death and replacing it with "inflammation of the brain". After setting the file on the shelf, she wheeled the body back into place. She turned around, removing her lab coat and setting it on the table.

"Stand still, and don't make a sound," a man's voice said from behind her. She spun around, seeing for a moment a large man dressed in a green uniform, carrying a wrench.

"I warned you," he said, bringing the wrench down on Molly's head.


	4. Chapter 4

_221B Baker Street_

"Sherlock, please!"

"I'm thinking!"

"You're just angry at Lestrade…"

"YES I'M ANGRY AT LESTRADE!" He shouted, pulling back gun's slide. He aimed for the yellow smile grinning back at him, which was already riddled with bullet holes.

"No no no," John said, taking the gun out of Sherlock's hand. "We're not going to ruin Mrs. Hudson's walls again."

"DAMN THE WALLS!" Sherlock yelled, storming into the kitchen. John followed, setting the gun on the coffee table.

"Sherlock, they'll get it right! If you're right…"

"Of course I'm right! I'm never wrong," Sherlock sighed, rummaging through the cupboard. John watched him curiously as he moved on to the drawers, tossing out spoons and knifes onto the floor.

"They're not here," John said, trying to hide his amusement.

"Right, and you expect me to believe that," he said, opening the refrigerator.

"You're wasting your time," John said smugly, sitting down in the living room chair. After a few minutes, Sherlock returned to the couch, sulking.

"I told you," John smiled, shaking his head. "I don't have any." Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"You're lying."

"No, I'm not."

"Why can't they see! It's obvious," he groaned as he laid down on his back. "Ellen fits the description their witnesses gave, and was with her sister the day of the murder!"

"Just give it time. Patience!" John said, sipping a cup of tea. "They'll see it soon enough."

"Patience. Just an excuse for being lazy," he sighed, staring at the ceiling.

"And you're not lazy?"

"Irrelevant," Sherlock said, reaching for his phone as it rang. He raised his eyebrows at the number.

"Who is…"

"St. Barts," he said, bringing the phone to his ear. He paused, his eyes widening slightly. "Thank you," he said quietly, hanging up the phone.

"What was that about?" John asked. Sherlock remained silent, still holding the phone.

"Sherlock?"

"Molly's in a coma."

_St. Bartholomew's Hospital_

"Need anything to drink?" The nurse asked.

"No, I'm fine." He paused, glancing at Sherlock as he gazed absentmindedly at the far wall. "He's fine, too." The nurse left them alone in the waiting room. Sherlock continued to stare, deep in thought.

"How?" He asked finally, not moving his gaze.

"I don't know, Sherlock. I really don't."

"I went over the room at least a dozen times," Sherlock said weakly. "No evidence. No weapon, no blood. Nothing taken."

"Well, if you can't find anything, then there isn't anything to find," John said, glancing at Sherlock. The sat in silence for a while. John flipped through the magazines, skimming the articles with disinterest.

"What is it?" Sherlock said suddenly, standing up.

"What's what?"

"A feeling," Sherlock said, pacing across the room. "A feeling where you know you could've done better, done something right, and then everything would've been okay?" He paused, looking yearningly at John.

"What?"

"There must've been something I missed. Something I didn't see," he muttered to himself, walking back and forth across the waiting room.

"You can't…"

"I should have known, John! I must've known! You can't miss something like that," he said, running his fingers through his dark hair.

"You weren't even…"

"Who? Who could've gotten into the laboratory? Past security, past the nightguard…"

"We'll find them! Sherlock, trust me. We'll figure this all out," John said, trying to reason with him. "You can't know everything."

"It's not the fact that I don't know, John…"

"There wasn't anything you could've done…"

"John. Do you realize that if I would have stayed in the lab a minute longer…" Sherlock paused, turning to face John. "It's not the fact that I don't know. It's knowing what could've been prevented." He sighed, sitting in the chair next to John.

"It's called guilt," John said after a period of silence.

"What?"

"Guilt. It's a feeling," John said, turning to Sherlock.

"I'm aware."

"Well, you asked what the feeling was, where you could've done something right, but you didn't."

"I know."

"Then why'd you ask?" John asked.

"Because I was hoping you wouldn't say it," he said softly, glancing at John.

"Out of all the times you've insulted other people. Robbed them of their dignity. Degraded their intelligence," he paused, waiting for Sherlock's reaction. "You choose now to feel guilty?"

"Yes."

"But it wasn't your fault!" John insisted. "Not this time."

"John, I was the only visitor in the building. It was late, we were alone. I should have noticed someone entering the…"

"Sherlock! There were night guards! That's their job!" John said, exasperated. "Nurses! Custodians!"

"Wait. Say that again," Sherlock said suddenly, turning to face John. "Slowly."

"There were night guards. Custodians. Nurse…"

"Thank you, John! You're a saint!" He bolted out of his chair, running towards the stairway. "I'll be in the lab!"

"What's he doing?" The same nurse asked who offered them drinks asked, watching as Sherlock ran up the stairs.

"I have no idea," John sighed, shaking his head.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock carefully examined the ground. He leaned down, pressing his cheek to the floor. Slowly, he moved his finger along the floor, feeling for the slightest imperfection on the surface.

"Scalpel," he said, reaching out his hand. He paused, waiting for John to hand it to him. "John, I said scalpel!"

"So, how often do you come here?" The nurse smiled, leaning against the filing shelves.

"Oh, occasionally." John said. "I mean, this is the first time it's been…"

"John! Scalpel!" Sherlock shouted. "Sharp, knife-like object…"

"I know what a scalpel is!" John snapped, sliding one off the lab table and placing it in his outstretched hand. Sherlock scraped away at the tile, removing a clear sliver from the surface.

"Perfect," Sherlock smiled, holding the sliver in his hand.

"What's he doing?" The nurse asked John, watching as Sherlock turned it over in his hand.

"It's a bit of dried ammonia someone tracked in," he said, standing up. "This proves everything."

"How does that prove anything?" She asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Don't ask. Just let him do his thing," John said, as Sherlock reached for a test tube.

"His thing?"

"You, get me a list of every custodian on duty last night," he said, glancing at the nurse.

"It's Shannon," the nurse said, crossing her arms.

"Thank you, Sharron," he said, placing the sliver in a test tube. Shannon rolled her eyes, walking out of the laboratory.

"Sherlock," John sighed, shaking his head.

"I said thank you, didn't I?" Sherlock asked, pouring a clear, thick liquid into the tube. "Molly, I need an analysis on…" he paused, looking up from the solution. "Never mind," he muttered, reaching for a glass stir rod.

"Need anything else," John asked quietly, watching the mixture change color as Sherlock stirred.

"No," he said quickly, pouring a few drops onto a microscope slide. "I think that'll do." He placed the slide under the microscope, adjusting the instrument's focus. He leaned down, moving his eye to the lens.

"So, what does this residue have to do with…"

"That's it!" Sherlock yelped, nearly knocking over his test tube. "We've got it, John!"

"Got what?" John asked, following him as he made his way towards the door.

"They only use ammonia-based cleaners to clean the laboratory's floors," he said excitedly, turning to face him. "The custodians clean this lab every Tuesday. Today's Friday, so the only custodian who would have the ammonia residue on his shoes would be one who has been on the floor recently, and that…"

"…would have to be the one that put Molly in a coma." John finished, grinning.

"Alright, here's your list," Shannon said, entering the room with a sheet of paper in her hand. Sherlock grabbed it, scanning it quickly with his eyes.

"So how do you know it was one of the custodians?" John asked.

"You're right. It could have been one of the nurses or night guards." He paused, pointing to a name on the list. "But look here." John's eyes moved to where Sherlock was pointing, reading the name.

"George Collins," he said aloud. "Wasn't that…"

"Olivia Roeder's boyfriend?" He said with a smile. "Exactly."

"But he didn't have anything to do with…"

"He had nothing to do with the murder. Ellen convinced him that there was evidence against him in the laboratory…"

"But there wouldn't be any evidence against if he had nothing to do with the murder…"

"Yes, but if Ellen could get him caught attempting to tamper with the evidence, it would make it look like he was the murderer," Sherlock said.

"So what does the ammonia prove?"

"That he was the one who put Molly in the ICU," he said, folding the paper and sliding it into his pocket. "Where do they keep their work shoes?" He asked, turning to Shannon.

"The custodians? Um…the basement washroom, I think. With the rest of their uniforms."

"Thank you, Sharron," he said, heading for the exit.

"Does he do this a lot?" Shannon asked.

"All the time," John said, as they both followed Sherlock out of the laboratory.

_221B Baker Street_

"Alright. You've convinced Lestrade to get an arrest warrant for Ellen. You found out who landed Molly in the hospital. What could you possibly have left to sulk about?" John said, looking over his newspaper at Sherlock, who was pacing the room.

"Where is she?" He muttered to himself, stopping next to the window.

"Who?"

"She wouldn't be at home…"

"Sherlock, you're honestly scaring me…"

"Ellen!" He snapped, turning to face John. "They can't arrest her if they don't know where she is."

"How do you know she's not at home?"

"Because she knows that they're after her," Sherlock sighed, turning back to the window. "It's nearly impossible to keep anything from the media."

"Well, I'm sure Lestrade has done a decent job of keeping them quiet about all this." John said, flipping over his newspaper.

"I doubt it," he said, picking up his phone. "He'll be calling about now." Sherlock reached for the phone as it began to ring. "What?" He said, answering the phone.

"It's Lestrade."

"I'm aware."

"I just wanted to tell…"

"Ellen's not there, I know."

"What? How did you…"

"I just did. Get over it."

"Well, where is she?"

"How would I know?"

"You knew she wasn't at the house, didn't you?"

"Honestly, Inspector. That was just common sense."

"Well, use that common sense of yours and figure out where she is! We don't have much time."

"I know! Just…give me a moment."

"We don't have a few…"

"Never mind. Meet me at 25 Pont Street as soon as possible."

"What…" Lestrade began as Sherlock hung up the phone.

"Did you just hang up on him?" John asked.

"Yes. He was getting annoying," Sherlock said indifferently, grabbing his scarf and coat. "Come on."

"Where are we going, exactly?" John asked, setting down his paper.

"Crime scene. 145 Roxler Alley."

"But you just told Lestrade Pont Street."

"Yes, we're killing two birds with one stone. Get him and his inspectors out of my hair, while annoying them in the process," he said, smiling. John chuckled, reaching for his own jacket.

"Why they still put up with you is beyond me," John said, following Sherlock to the door.

"Because I'm the only one without a brain the size of a pea."

"Humility isn't in your vocabulary, is it?"

"Intelligence isn't in theirs. I think it's a fair trade," Sherlock said, letting in a cold breeze as he opened the door. "Come on, we've got work to do."


	6. Chapter 6

_145 Roxler Alley_

Sherlock stepped out of the cab onto the wet pavement, followed by John. He immediatly started off down the alley, walking into the thick blackness that seemed to fill city nights.

"Why on Earth would she be here?" John said as he caught up to Sherlock.

"What's the one place the police won't look?"

"But there are other places. Why would she come here if she could just as easily leave the country?"

"Guilt. Fear," Sherlock said, turning to John. "Emotions hinder one's ability to use logic and reason." He looked up, examining the brick walls that surrounded them on both sides.

"Well, if she were guilty, wouldn't she stay as far away from here as possible?"

"Maybe," Sherlock said, pointing to a small container of lipstick on the ground. "Maybe not."

"Someone could've dropped that here days ago."

"Someone with enough money to spend on a thirty dollar tube of lipstick?"

"How would you…"

"Shh. Listen," Sherlock said, brows furrowed. "Hear that?" He asked, looking up at the walls around them.

"What?"

"That…noise," he paused, turning to John. "You did hear…" his voice was cut off by the sound of a gunshot, echoing off the alley walls. Both he and John ducked, pressing their cheeks to the gravel.

"That noise?" A voice from above them shouted.

"That's Ellen," John whispered.

"Obviously," Sherlock said, standing up and brushing himself off.

"What, are you crazy! Get down!" He shouted as another gunshot rang into the night.

"Don't worry, she's a terrible shot," he said, squinting up towards the fire escape.

"Are you so sure about that, Mr. Holmes?" She called back, taunting.

"Yes, positive," he said. "But I don't think you are."

"What do you mean?" She asked, her voice tinged with fear.

"I think you want to be caught, either that or you're an idiot," he replied. "Perhaps both."

"And why on earth would I want to be caught?"

"You know the answer to that, Miss Roeder," he answered. A moment of silence passed between them.

"She was sleeping with my husband!"

"Yes, and you were sleeping with about three other men," Sherlock said.

"She had everything!" She spat, still gripping the gun with trembling hands. "Even when we were kids, she always came first. I was always taking care of her, trying to fix her mistakes. I was the one who got blamed when she screwed up!"

"You could have just said no, when she asked for help," Sherlock said, pacing across the pavement. "But no, you're not the type, are you? If you turned her down, then it'd still be you're fault."

"I helped her!" Ellen cried, aiming the gun at Sherlock. "And not once did I get any thanks! Not once!"

"But she trusted you, didn't she?"

"And I trusted her!" She shouted, moving her finger to the trigger. "But apparently that didn't matter, now did it?"

"So you killed her," he said, watching as she rested her finger on the trigger.

"Sherlock!" John shouted. "She's…"

"I know, John. Hush."

"You don't understand," she murmered, moving the gun to her own head. "You will never understand."

"Ellen, please," John said, watching as she took in her final breath. "Please, don't do this…"

"I'm sorry, John," she smiled weakly. "I…"

"SHERLOCK!" Lestrade's voice echoed through the alley. Everyone turned to see Lestrade walking towards them, followed by several dozen inspectors and police officers. "If I recall correctly, you said PONT STREET!"

"Yes," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. "Your point is?"

"Inspector!" One of the officers called. Lestrade turned and looked to where the officer was pointing.

"Ellen?" Lestrade sputtered, looking up to the fire escape. He notice the gun in her hand. "Now hold on a second. Just stop and think about this."

"Idiot! Obviously she's thought about it! People don't go around spontaneously ending their lives without giving it some thought!" Sherlock shouted.

"Sherlock, you've done enough already. Let us…"

"Just. Trust me," he said slowly, staring straight at Lestrade. He sighed, nodding slightly.

"Ellen," Sherlock called. "Ellen, listen to me. This won't fix things. No matter how much it seems to make sense, it won't help anything."

"It doesn't matter," Ellen said, her voice wavering. "She's gone now."

"Yes, but you're not," he said firmly, looking up at her. "You can't fix it. But it'll get better. I promise." Ellen's hands shook as she slowly moved the gun away from her head.

"You're welcome," Sherlock said, turning away from Lestrade and walking past the crowd of inspectors.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called after him. "Sherlock, I'm not quite finished with you yet!"

"You can finish in the morning, Inspector. I should be up around ten or so," he said, not bothering to look back.

"Sherlock, I…"

"Ten, no earlier!" Sherlock called, as John followed him to the cab.

"Trust me, he'll be more personable in the morning!" John said before shutting the car door.

"I highly doubt it," Lestrade said, rolling his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

_St. Bartholomew's Hospital_

Sherlock stood up out of his chair and stretched, glancing at the hospital bed to his right. Molly lay there still, locked in a dreamless sleep. He looked away, examining the framed pictures of wildlife that seemed to cover every hospital wall.

"Still here, are we?" Shannon said, entering the room with a water bottle and package of crackers in hand.

"Yes," Sherlock replied distractedly, still gazing at the pictures.

"I brought you these," she said, placing the contents on the side table next to him. He gave a quick nod, barely glancing at the food. "Well, I'll be out there if you need anything," she sighed, walking towards the door.

Sherlock turned around after she left, walking over to Molly's bedside. He watched her intently, the slow rise and fall of her chest with each shallow breath. The fluorescent light above gave her skin a sickly pale tinge, worsening her already poor complexion.

"Guilt," Sherlock laughed, his eyes studying the ground. "It's a useless emotion. One that makes you feel remorse over something that's already happened," he said, glancing up at Molly's unchanged face. "Something you can't change or…or fix." He turned away, moving to the far corner of the room. "Something that, no matter how hard you try, no matter how long you look, you still can't find the answer." He walked back to her side, his eyes searching for movement. A response of some sort is all it would take.

"Molly," he said, his voice desperate. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there when I should have been." He paused, gazing at the peaceful expression on her face. He reached over, touching her hand gently. "But I don't think I could forgive myself if you didn't wake up. So please," he whispered softly, his voice frail. "Please wake up. You mean more to…" he stopped, noticing Molly's eyelids twitch ever so slightly.

"Molly, can you hear me?" Sherlock said slowly, leaning in towards her ear.

"Mmphh," she groaned as she tried to move her head, eyes still closed.

"No no, don't move," he said softly, a small smile crossing his lips. "Stay exactly where you are." He leaned towards her, kissing her forehead gently. "Thank you, Molly Hooper."


	8. Chapter 8

"How's it taste?" Shannon asked, walking into Molly's hospital room.

"Good. Honestly, it wouldn't matter if I was eating cardboard right now. I'm starved!"

"I can tell," she said, pulling up a chair next to her.

"Shannon, you don't have to stay if you don't want to. I know how busy the ICU gets this late."

"Actually, we haven't been that busy," she said, crossing her legs. "Other than a few visitors, no one new's been in."

"I love the flowers you gave me, by the way," Molly said, sipping her water.

"Just got them this morning. I knew today would be the day," she smiled.

"Did anyone come in while I was out?"

"A couple people. Janet from upstairs, and Rachel from the front office. Oh, and your little friend, Sherlock Holmes," she added as Molly coughed, choking on a forkful of rice.

"Easy now," Shannon said, patting her on the back. "Chew, then swallow."

"Sherlock was here?" Molly said, after swallowing her food.

"I'll say. He stayed in your room for at least three hours."

"Really?" She asked, setting down her fork.

"Yes. I also listened in on him when I passed the doorway. Right before you woke up, he was talking to you."

"So it wasn't a dream…"

"What?"

"I had a dream he was talking to me," she said, slightly embarrassed. "I don't quite remember what he said, but I remember his voice…" she paused, glancing at Shannon. "Did he really?

"Yes. Funny how he left before you really came to." She said, shaking her head. "I guess that's just him, though. He didn't leave until he knew you were going to be all right." She stood up, taking Molly's empty plate and silverware. "Need anything else?"

"No, I think I'll be all right," she smiled, leaning back onto her pillows.

"All right. Shout or something if you need me."

"Thanks, Shannon," she said, watching as Shannon left the room, closing the door behind her. She sighed, giving up on trying to remember what Sherlock had said to her. Either way, he had been considerate enough to visit, she thought. Considerate enough to stay in a hospital for three hours straight. She smiled to herself, pulling the sheets up closer to her chin and letting her eyes close. He hadn't forgotten her, and that was all that mattered.


	9. Chapter 9

_221B Baker Street_

"You're quiet today," John said, not looking up from his magazine.

"Thinking," Sherlock murmured, stretched out in his usual position on the couch.

"What else could you possibly have left to think about?"

"Everything. Or perhaps nothing," he sighed, staring at the familiar pattern on the ceiling. "It's always the same problem, really. Disguised with different details, yes. A different time, a different setting, yet always the same," he said, removing a hair from his pant leg. "Someone was clever but lazy, forgetting about the clue or two that gives them away."

"You make it sound easy," John said.

"It's neither easy nor difficult, John. It's possible," Sherlock said, pulling at loose threads on the couch. "Of course, more possible for some than others."

"You mean possible for you, not others?"

"Exactly."

"You and your ego," John said, rolling his eyes from behind the article.

"My ego has nothing to do with it."

"It has everthing…"

"One is either right or wrong. Name a time where I was wrong about something."

"It's the fact that you always think you're right," John said, turning the page. "Don't you have something useful to do?"

"Obviously not."

"By the way, where were you this morning?" John said, glancing up from the magazing. "Mrs. Hudson wanted you to clear off the reminents your latest experiment from the kitchen table."

"It's not finished. The fungus hasn't come close to petetrating the skin's corium," he said, smirking as John cringed. "And I was out. At the hospital."

"Molly?" He asked quietly.

"Working in the lab," he said quickly.

"Mmm-hm," John said, raising his eyebrows.

"Believe what you want. I don't see the point investing emotion in things like that."

"Sherlock, she's your friend."

"I never said that."

"You don't need to."

"I told you…" Sherlock stopped as his phone rang. He picked it up, a hint of a smile forming across his lips as he read the name.

"A bit too soon, don't you think?" He asked, bringing the phone to his ear. He paused, listening intently. "Well, perhaps if you ask nicely. I have an extremely interesting experiment I'm overseeing at St. Bart's…yes…well, it's actually coming along quite nicely…" he said, glancing at his experiment scattered about the kitchen table. "But I suppose I could spare you a few minutes of my time. Where is he?" He paused, his eyes lighting up. "I see. Well, I'll be over at somepoint," he said, hiding his excitement with a yawn. "Have to finish up with these centrifuges first. And note the decomposition's progress," he added. "Oh, and I want coffee when I get there. Two sugars," he said, hanging up and setting the phone on the table.

"Lestrade?" John asked, setting down the magazine.

"As always," Sherlock smiled. "We've got ourselves another homicide."

"That was quick," John said as Sherlock reached for his coat. "Where at?"

"Well, the head and left arm are in a sewer off of Southgate. The rest is just outside Lambeth," he raised his eyebrows. "Interested?"

"Definitely," John said, smiling. Sherlock tossed him his jacket.

"Then let's go."


End file.
